


Staring at Stars

by MrJoeJoe



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 16:02:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6335287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrJoeJoe/pseuds/MrJoeJoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I have no idea what this is. Just like some one-off thing. Idk, I was bored. I think I sort of ended up making it about a bullying victim</p>
            </blockquote>





	Staring at Stars

Wren was staring up at the stars.  
He lay on his back, staring up a the stars, as they twinkled and winked ever so quietly. He  
cocked his head.  
The stars kept twinkling and winking.  
He could hear nothing.  
He just saw the stars.  
Twinkling, winking.  
And he began to think, and look, and think some more.  
And then he thought some more.  
And the world disappeared. The ground collapsed and he was standing, gripping an icy  
edge of rock. Everything was white, flecks of snow flurrying around. He could see nothing,  
his eyes penetrating no more than a metre through the mass of flakes. Below him was a  
steep descent, down a snowy slope to some bottomless death. Beyond that, there was  
nothing.  
Only the whiteness of the void.  
His hands were freezing. He couldn't feel them as he clung on to the sharp piece of rock  
slicing through the snow.  
Blood trickled down his palm, dribbling into his coat through the sleeve. Crimson, hot  
blood came dancing out of his skin, further wetting the rock.  
Wren slipped.  
One hand down. He scrunched his face up in pain, in agony, as more blood began  
leaking from him.  
He dug his feet in as much as he could, pushing and pushing and pulling with his arms  
and pushing and pulling and scrambling and struggling and eventually, though blood was  
running from him like water from a tap, he straddled the ledge of rock in amidst the sea of  
snow. He breathed in, heavily.  
His legs felt like they were burning.  
He couldn't feel his bare hands, puring with blood, staining the snow. It didn't last long  
thought, as more whiteness purified the stained areas.  
So Wren got to his feet, teetering on the ledge, barely 5cm across. He took a step  
forwards.  
And another.  
And another.  
He ventured through emptiness on a razor blade of reality, staring out into infinity, so  
pure, so white, like angels.  
Angels, falling, crying out, from the heavens.  
Piled up, squashed, icy cold yet so white, so clean.  
Wren kept balancing along the ridge.  
Unfortunately, snowy ridges aren't that easy to stay on.  
In fact, they're notoriously hard to stay on.  
Well, you know, they aren't known for being hard to stay on, but when you think about it,  
they would be rather awkward. There would likely be some ice, and you can't really see  
exactly where you can step, which isn't very helpful on a roughly 5cm ledge above infinity  
and below who knows what else.  
Therefore, Wren slipped.  
His foot skipped over the edge of the ridge into nothing.  
He lost his balance, and, inevitably, fell, his body following his foot.

His head scraped down the rock, covering it in the warmth of Wren's now very precious  
blood. His body hit the steep snowy slopes below.  
He rolled down into infinity.  
His head screamed as he tumbled downwards, sliding, falling, crashing into the falling  
snow. Blood flew in tiny droplets, arcing through the air, death amongst the purity, the  
cleanliness of fallen angels, so quietly falling, tossing, turning, just as Wren did now,  
falling, turning, being tossed around, soaring and sliding.  
He fell, ever so quietly, down, through the cracks of nothing into the void, or infinity.  
He couldn't decipher whether this was infinity or the void he was falling into, but he kept  
falling, body being slammed by shards of rock which pierced the fallen.  
And Wren kept falling, tumbling, turning, spinning, hurting, grasping, crying, gasping,  
snapping, soaring, dying, living, falling.  
He kept falling, down and down and down unsure if he was touching snow or air,  
unaware, incapable of thought over the torment of his mind.  
He kept falling.  
And falling.  
And falling.  
White became red, became grey, became black, became white.  
Nothing was moving, yet everything was moving, as Wren remained frozen among the  
falling, tumbling among the fallen.  
Then infinity ended.  
Wren came to a stop, curled up in a ball, sobbing, body wracked with pain, with emotion,  
collapsing all around him.  
Eventually, he stood up. Slowly, ever so slowly, he stood, climbing to his feet. He looked  
around. Nothing greeted him. No ethereal figure, no friendly adventurer. Nothing had  
followed him, and held him in its grasp still.  
Wren fell to his knees, head pounding, ignoring the angry shouts, the yells, the hateful  
cries, the torment, of this endless suffering.  
He was alone.  
He stayed up there, in infinity, or the void, or nothing, or everything. He really couldn't be  
too sure.  
Wren was alone.  
He sat, stood, lay, hoping, begging, crying for something. Anything. A little blue train. An  
inflatable dinosaur, a blanket, a chair, a jumper a shoe a door a wheel a ball anything.  
Any something that could be, he just wanted it.  
He, Wren, was alone, in nothing, crying, begging, staring, lying, sitting, thinking, bleeding, freezing, confusing.  
He didn't know.  
The angels fell, and so did Wren.  
He gave in, knowing not what would happen, understanding nothing.  
He pitched himself over his little piece of something into nothing.  
Whiteness surrounded himself once more, yet as he looked up, he saw them. Shadows,  
phantoms, ghosts, laughing down at him, tumbling down, giving up. Their gleeful crows  
followed him, soaring around his head, taunting him.

Wren began falling again, flying into infinity, or the void. Maybe he was going upwards,  
towards who knows what else. He didn't know if gravity was a thing here. Maybe it was,  
but it was called something else. Wren didn't know. The angels kept falling with him,  
crying with him in the void. He reached out, trying for something.  
A friendly hand reached out, grabbing for him, grasping at him, catching his foot. Wren  
looked up towards it, towards his rescuer, but they came again. The ghosts, the  
phantoms, his doubt, his suffering, his death, came after him, laughing, falling to their  
knees in glee, grinning, smiling, frowning, glaring. The hand let go, and the laughter  
returned, chasing him down into infinity.  
Wren kept falling. Falling into reality, staring up at the stars.  
Twinkling, winking. Laughing?  
Wren didn't want to know.  
He got up, brushed himself off with his clean, unsliced hands, and walked inside, his head  
held low beneath the laughter, chasing him down, chasing him away.  
  



End file.
